


Bent, not broken

by Killermanatee



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Emotional pain, Established Relationship, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Violence, Mentions of sexual violence, Physical Pain, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 05:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13140381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killermanatee/pseuds/Killermanatee
Summary: After a traumatic event Chakotay and Kathryn work on finding their way back to each other.Please be aware of the tags.





	Bent, not broken

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Klugtiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klugtiger/gifts).



> This is for my soulmate Klugtiger.  
> Because seriously, where have you been all my life?!  
> I tried to write something I hope you'll enjoy. So this may not be a happy, sappy Christmas fic, but we both know that's not what we're here for anyway.  
> <3

There was a time when waking up in our bed, in the home we’ve built together, meant peace. It meant long, lazy mornings between the sheets with the man I love, slipping in and out of sleep, enjoying comfort and tenderness, passion and serenity.

But today, even after I wake from the nightmares, the moment I close my eyes again, I see the Magistrate’s face grinning at me. I see his even, flawless features, the dark eyes, high cheekbones, defined jaw. I see the cruel curve of his lip as he asks me about our mission, the alliances we have forged, about Starfleet, about Earth. I see the pleasure every time he dips a blade in the green liquid and I see the open joy as he cuts my flesh. I see his amusement as I scream in agony, the open satisfaction as I am violated by his men.

Despite the medication, the counseling, the support from everyone around me I can’t shake these images. They are scorched into my brain, clawed into my being. I hate them. I hate that they haunt me, that I can’t move beyond them, that they affect me even more than the physical remnants of my three months at the Da’al’s mercy.

I rub my eyes and push the heels of my hands into them in a futile attempt to suppress the memories. My arms ache at the movement, my limbs stiff and muscles weak.

Chakotay’s hand slides onto my stomach, spanning the space below my ribcage, heat radiating from it. He moves in slow circles, caring, trying to soothe, and his sentiment tears through me, reminding me of the hands of strangers, of metal sliding against me, tearing me open.

I take a deep breath. “Please, stop.” My voice sounds harsh and mean and so far from everything we used to be.

He removes his hand and shifts beside me.  He doesn’t say anything.

Throughout the ordeal of my recovery he has been nothing but patient. He has only left my side to sleep since he rescued me. Even while I was being cared for at Starfleet medical he has followed my every step, offering support in any way I could have asked for. Not once has he complained about my requests, or the distance I keep him at. Instead, he ensures that I follow the regiments the doctors have set up for me, that I take my medication, go through with the physical therapy. He has listened to all of the explanations, has asked questions I couldn’t voice, and inquired about options when I didn’t see any.

Tears sting behind my lids and no matter how hard my hands are forced against them, they still break free.

Ignoring the protests of my body I force myself to get out of bed, heading for the bathroom, and only when the door has closed behind me do I allow my legs to give out. I collapse on the side of the tub. My limbs shake with the effort of having got me here and I have to use my hands to pull my legs closer, the muscles of my thighs being too weak to perform the task. Even through the fabric of my pajamas my knees are sharp, my legs thin and I shiver despite the thick flannel I’m wearing.

With trembling hands I wipe away the tears, trying hard to focus on something, anything else.

To stop the tremors in my hands I place them on my thighs. I don’t even recognize my own fingers. The veins stand out, the skin is thin and mottled, the nails short and chipped. The ring finger no longer shows the indentation of my wedding band, it having been taken right after my capture.

I take a few deep breaths, focus on calming down, on pulling myself together.

 

*****

 

I listen for Kathryn’s movements in the bathroom, worried about her condition while trying to respect her privacy. We have been back in our home for less than twelve hours and after two weeks at Starfleet medical she must want some space to herself.

Her pillow still bears her indentation, a sign that she is really back here with me. The nights without her were torturous. Adrenaline coursed through me from the moment she was taken and I was consumed with the single-minded focus on getting her back.

I knew what the Da’al would do to her, their threats echoing in my ears. I pictured countless ways in which they would hurt and degrade her, with only the fantasies of what I would do to them in turn keeping me sane. I barley slept or ate, only maintained enough of a facade to stay on duty.  

When I got her back, she was little more than a bloody pile of bones. The sight of her malnourished body, the infected wounds, dislocated joints and bloodshot eyes will haunt me until I die. And I will never forgive myself for letting her be taken, for not finding her sooner, for using a simple phaser to rid the universe of her captors. It did nothing to balance the scales.

Even knowing she was expertly cared for by the best doctors we have, was safe and only a short transport away, didn’t let me sleep. I have had difficulty focusing on anything besides her recovery. I thought maybe having her securely tucked in my arms, the constant reassurance of her presence would finally let me rest.

But then she asked me to keep my distance and I reluctantly followed her request, understanding the horrific source of it. So I spent the night tossing and turning, always mindful of the space between us, despite my need to hold her close. Although we have touched since I got her off that damned planet. I have pressed my hands onto bleeding gashes that wouldn’t heal, carried her out of her cell and held her cold fingers. She has leaned on me, and last night I helped her walk into our home.  

She still feels lightyears away.

Rage boils under the surface, constantly threatening to break free, to spill through me. My stomach is in knots, my neck and shoulders tense with the need to hurt the men who did this to her, despite knowing that there are none left. I keep finding my fingers unintentionally balled into fists. I am strung tightly, close to my breaking point. Thoughts of blood and torn-apart bodies, lifeless men rush through me and I hate the sense of justice they instill in me. It has been a very long time since I have been at this point.

But this isn’t the man she needs. She needs me to be here for her, to provide strength and support.

So despite the restless need to hurt and break and torture, I focus on my breathing. I search of the calm inside of me, the guidance of my ancestors.

They have been brutally silent since she was taken almost four months ago.  

With a sense of dull resignation I finally get out of bed.

She has asked me for space, has promised me she will let me know if she needs help. The counsellors told me to offer her trust, to respect her boundaries, and to not take her distance as an insult. They didn’t tell me about the sharp pain slicing through me every time she doesn’t ask, every time she turns away. They didn’t tell me how just having her back alive wouldn’t be enough.

I put on a shirt and walk into the kitchen to begin preparing breakfast. Maybe this display of the ordinary will help us to find our way back.

I have just begun to set out the vegetables when she enters the kitchen. She is still in her dark red pajamas, her feet in warm socks and she is so frail the fabric is drowning her.

Ever since she has been allowed to get off the biobed I have tried to adjust to her movements, to make sure I don’t cringe at every sign of discomfort, at her small steps, her feet barely lifting off the ground. Even now, here in her home with me nearby, she stays close to the walls, her fingers always connected and I wonder how long it will take for her to trust me again to catch her.

She gives me a weary smile. “Morning. Sorry about just escaping on you back there.”

I don’t need to ask why she can’t stand my touch. Instead I settle for: “How are you feeling? Ready for some breakfast?”

She carefully leans against the other side of the center counter, facing me. “I would love some. What does the chef recommend?”

“How do you feel about some vegetable omelets?”

“Sounds wonderful. I would also love some coffee.”

I give her an apologetic look and she bows her head. “I know, I know. It’s all herbal tea and plain water.”

“I am sorry. Give it another week.” With that I move to get a cup for each of us ready.

 

*****

 

The heat of the tea is scorching my fingers through the cup. It helps to soothe the aching, although maybe it just gives me something else to focus on. I shift my weight in hopes to relieve the tension in my knees as I lean against the counter.

I look back up to watch Chakotay going through the motions. He is almost stoic in heating up the pan, getting out eggs and seasonings. As he begins to chop vegetables, I have to look away because I can’t bear to watch the knife slicing through peppers and mushrooms. My eyes move past him, looking out the window where snow is still falling and then over to our living room.

I never thought I’d live in a house as anachronistic as this, yet now I can’t imagine anything else grounding me like this place does. It is the combination of the natural materials, the evidence of my husband’s woodworking talents, the collection of shared memories, and the complete lack of screens and displays.

It is the total opposite of the medical facilities and exactly what I need.

So we share the silence, him providing for me, like he always does and me, just waiting. I don’t even know what for.

 

*****

 

Maybe it was foolish to expect getting Kathryn back home would be enough. That just being in our private surroundings would help her open up. I watch her eat slowly and every time her brow creases in pain, every movement that is paused midway makes me more restless, more desperate for us to just be back at where we were.

We eat in silence. But this isn’t the easy tranquility in which we follow our thoughts, absentmindedly entwine our feet under the table and share a smile every now and then. This is a deafening lack of communication.

Finally I can’t take it anymore. “We should probably get to your exercises and I should massage your back. Would you like to take a bath before we do that?”

It sounds like I’m talking to a stranger not to my wife of six years.

At the mention of a bath her eyes light up a little. “I think that might help. I’ll go do that.”

She moves to get off the chair by pulling herself up slowly and I am instantly at her side, holding on to her arm, one hand at her waist. The moment she stands she retreats, pulling away from my touch. She starts to slowly move back to our bedroom. Her back is bowed forward, hands still trailing for support along her path, steps short and slow. She looks like a frail old woman at the end of her life.

If I only could, I would kill the Magistrate all over again.

 

*****

 

I am thankful Chakotay doesn’t follow me. While I have accepted that every now and then I may depend on his physical support, I am not ready for him to see me without my clothes. It may be vain and superficial but he has seen too much of the damage already when he carried me out of that cell. I can’t bring that into our home.

This is our save haven, our retreat and hiding spot. The Delta Quadrant has no place here. This is where Chakotay and Kathryn live, two equals who share their lives, who are not afraid to speak their minds, or see a fight through to its end. This is where we care and support each other to the same extent, where neither takes a step back.

But I have not been able to see that side of us yet. Ever since I woke up from the induced coma at medical, we’ve been awkward and quiet and he treads carefully as if any rash movement might scare me away. He has been so gentle, exceptionally calm and collected. He has followed my lead and not voiced his opinion once.

The distance between us is driving me insane.

It takes me so long to get back into the bathroom, to cover the few meters I have never even contemplated before. Now they seem like a marathon.

I finally make it to the tub and take my previous spot on its rim as the hot water rushes in, heat and steam filling the room.

As my weak and foreign fingers have just started to undo the first button on my pajama top the doors open. Chakotay stops on the threshold. “Do you need help with anything?”

I sigh and drop my hands. “No, thank you. I’ll manage.”

He doesn’t leave and so we are both still, neither of us moving until I clear my throat. “Could I have a little privacy?”

He looks at me with a puzzled expression. “I am pretty sure I have seen you undressed before. It’s a little late for modesty.”

I take a deep breath. “It’s not about that. I just…” well, I suppose I have to tell him eventually… “I really don’t want you to see me like this.”

“Ah.” His jaw moves and his hands ball into fists at his sides and then stretch again. “But you know I was there in that cell. I was with you when you underwent treatment. They briefed me on your condition, on everything that…” he trails of and looks away from me, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths.

Then he speaks again, his voice low and deliberate. “But if you would like to be alone, I will respect that. I will also wait in the bedroom, just in case you change your mind.”

This is all turning out so wrong.

As he moves to leave, I stop him. “Wait.” He looks up at me and I wonder just what is really going on behind that calm and controlled demeanor.

I rub my hands over my thighs. “I don’t want you to see me because I don’t want your pity. If you see all those marks they left on me, you’ll just keep treating me like I’m this fragile thing you’re afraid to break.” I pause to swallow the lump in my throat. “And it’s killing me because that’s not who I want to be.”

He may only be an arm’s reach away, but right now it feel like we’re barely in the same galaxy.

 

*****

 

The blood is rushing in my ears, my pulse beating fast against my chest and it is taking every technique I know to not break something. I refuse to let the ghosts of these bastards infringe on us, to steal away the ease we worked so hard to obtain.

So I focus on my breathing, push aside the dark impulses and instead kneel in front of my wife. The woman I have loved for twenty years, who I have longed for from afar and shared my soul with.

My muscles are tense as I lift my hands to undo the top button of her shirt.

“We are not going to let this come between us. I don’t care about the damn scars. I don’t care if you’re weak or your body is too thin.” I move down the line of buttons, exposing the ribs visible between her breasts, her sunken in stomach and the violent red lines across her skin. “I promised to love you, for better or worse. And I intend to keep that vow.”

Her chest is rising more quickly, her abdomen flutters and I just want to touch her, kiss her, show her that she will never be defined by the damages.

Instead my eyes find hers and my fingers pause on the bottom of the opened garment.

And suddenly I can’t contain the words any longer.

“But I am so angry, Kathryn, so full of hate. I didn’t know I could still hate with such force and brutality. It’s inside of me all the time and it doesn’t matter if these men are dead because as long as you are suffering they are still here with us.”

She bites her lip and I take her hands in mine.

“I want them to be gone. I want our life back. But I don’t know how I am supposed to do that when all I can think about is how much I still want to hurt them, how every time you hiss in pain I feel the need to beat them until I can’t feel my fists, until every single one of them is a bloody….”

My voice breaks and the lump in my throat has become too large to swallow. I press my eyes together tightly, fighting the angry tears that have begun to burn.

 

*****

 

My heart breaks for this man I love so dearly. For the agony he feels, the hate he can’t rid himself of, and I know what it does to him to feel this way.

I slip my fingers from his, run them through his hair and with a long breath he allows me to pull his head into my lap. His arms wind around me as the first shudders flutter through him. His fingers press into my back and tears are seeping through the fabric at my thighs. His sobs are wild, uncontrolled, shaking him to the core and in spite of my protesting body I lean forward, rub my cheek through his hair, stroke his back, wanting so desperately to take some of his suffering away.

My tears have started to flow again and my own sorrow mixes with his. Sorrow about what I put him through, about how I wish I could just get better, how I want to let him in, even if I don’t know how.

I part my legs, drawing him closer and he moves his face against my bare chest, against the gashes that defy all of our medical advances and may never fully heal, against the sharp outline of my ribs. His tears scorch me and the tightness of his arms hurts, constricting my lungs.

So we cry together, his fingers painfully hard against my ribcage and his skin directly against mine. I hold him close to me, suddenly needing his solid form to cling to, the familiar feel of the man who has been my strength through so much. Maybe right now I can be his strength, too.

My arms are wrapped around him, as closely as my body allows and my lips move through his hair, kissing him, breathing him in. And it turns out this may just be the lifeline I’ve needed, this reminder of what we are. Strong and solid and wrought into one.

The realization lights a spark inside me. A small glimmer of hope that just like any other instance before, we will also make it through this. Together, as equals and maybe even to be stronger for it.  
In time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> A massively huge thank you goes out to Helen8462. This was really tough to put together and it would have never happened without you help.


End file.
